Almost
by c-r-roberts
Summary: In which Katniss Everdeen does the one thing she swore she'd never do. Everlark. Canon. MJ/Epilogue.


_A/N: I originally posted this on tumblr as a drabble response to the prompt of "I swore I'd never do this." _

* * *

Peeta's not even home when they drop him off. He clings to Delly's hand when she leads him up the few stairs it takes to reach our front door, where I wait with what I hope is a kind smile and not the look of terror that would more accurately represent how I'm feeling right now.

Matty's three years old. With wide blue eyes, a mop of light brown hair and chubby cheeks that resemble the ones his mother had once upon a time.

Though Delly's almost too thin these days, and I know she and Thom really need these few days away.

They've been trying to conceive a second child since Matty's first birthday. But it's been two years, and nothing seems to be working. We've talked about it a lot over tea, and over walks with Matty in tow to the meadow that's finally regrown enough tall grass and wildflowers for me to be able to call it that again and not the mass grave it's been for so long.

While District 12 has slowly returned to some form of life that's not entirely horrible, and we have a town square again with small shops and businesses, and even a school, it's still not easy. Not for anyone still here. Not with the ghosts of our families and friends and so many others all_ gone_ and still haunting us.

And there's no denying they haunt all of us, in one way or another.

For me, it's in the form of sweaty nightmares and the guttural screams I can't keep in at 3:00 AM that still happen too often and that only Peeta's arms can quiet. And also in the now very infrequent but once all too common shininess of Peeta's otherwise clear blue eyes, a signal I picked up on long ago as my only warning that there's nothing to do but be very careful and watch him hold on tightly until it passes and he's the boy with the bread again, apologizing for absolutely nothing he should feel sorry for.

For Peeta, I think it's surely my bad days, the ones where I can't be bothered to leave our bed to eat or even brush my teeth. And it's also in the all too new walls of the bakery, where he spends most days kneading and frosting with Vick Hawthorne—who he'd hired on the spot when he'd returned from District 13 once he turned 18—instead of spending them with his father and his brothers.

And for Delly and Thom, it's in the stress of Thom falling into the position of District 12's new mayor, working tirelessly to make life here livable for not just themselves, but for everyone here. And it's in their unsuccessful need to grow and make their own little family because they won't have one any other way.

My mother, still District 12's acting healer, even from the shores of District 4, suggested by phone call that Delly and Thom get away, and let the ocean act as therapy. Where they can work on conceiving in relaxed peace. And also maybe schedule a visit with her while they're there just to make sure everything's okay.

So that's what's prompted the child exchange that's currently happening. Peeta and I have agreed to watch Matty for those few days; however foolish that decision may seem now.

Because Matty cries loudly when Delly and Thom leave, looking at me with distrusting eyes and screaming for his mother.

I think we're both feeling pretty helpless in one another's company.

But eventually, I coax him outside into the backyard, after he's cried himself out and I've bribed him with juice.

And I should have known better, but Matty immediately spots the geese in the neighboring yard, and I quickly learn that nothing will keep him from them.

Not even Haymitch.

I sigh and we run back inside to find the stale ends of a loaf of bread in the cupboard.

"C'mon then," I say, trying to sound excited.

I don't bother knocking or looking for Haymitch or his approval; Matty and I just walk right up to the chicken wire fence that pens in Haymitch's flock.

"No touching," I remind Matty, pulling off a piece of bread and demonstrating how to hold it out in my palm carefully, letting a goose's rounded beak snatch it off my hand.

And Matty, all chubby cheeks and gleaming eyes, shrieks with delight.

This type of shrieking I can handle. It's adorable. And his smile almost makes up for the awful crying kind.

We feed the geese in relative peace for a few minutes before I hear his surly voice behind me.

"Well what's this? You're watching the kid all by yourself and no one's ended up dead yet?"

"_Yet_," I confirm pointedly, shooting daggers at Haymitch who smirks and swigs his Capitol-imported liquor right from the bottle.

In front of a three year old.

I glare at him again, and he just shrugs, his body language all I need as the reminder that I'm on his turf, and he does what he wants.

I watch Matty carefully hold his pudgy hand out at the fence, making sure the geese aren't too overwhelming, actually smiling when he laughs gleefully for what must be the sixth or seventh time as another goose scoops up the bread from him.

Haymitch sighs gruffly. But it's like he can't help himself from asking.

"And the bakery? It's doing okay?"

He's really asking if Peeta's doing okay, but this is just the way we talk. Forever and always in code, my mentor and I.

"The bakery is good," I confirm. "Thriving, even. Better than it has been in a really long time."

Haymitch nods, pursing his lips as if in thought.

"You should visit it," I tell him, shooting him a glance before turning back to watch Matty as he toddles toward us, excitedly holding out his hand to me. _More bread._

I break off a few more tiny pieces of bread, my heart melting a little when he grins the half-toothy grin that only a three year old can.

"No more after this," Haymitch grumbles as Matty heads back, laughing and shouting as the geese flock to him.

"They'll get fat."

I raise an eyebrow, but don't actually say anything, silently agreeing Matty and I should move on soon anyway.

"But tell the kid I'm glad things are going okay."

I smile softly.

"I will. You coming to dinner on Sunday?"

And Haymitch just shakes his head at me, walking away at my inside joke.

Peeta and I have been inviting Haymitch to Sunday dinner for ten years now.

He's attended exactly none.

But I'm still secretly pleased I was able to give him an update.

They're unfortunately too few and far between.

* * *

After Haymitch's, I opt to take Matty to the meadow to search for bunnies and point out squirrels rather than taking him to the bakery, because I know Peeta will already be bringing home sweets for him and Delly made me promise we wouldn't spoil him too much.

We play an uneven game of tag, then chase a bunny we find trying to hide on the edge of a tall section of grass, and attempt a few rounds of "I spy" until Matty can't stop spying the same big stick that's a few feet away from us, and I can no longer come up with things to guess other than the big stick.

But judging by where the sun hangs in the sky, I deem it's time to head back to our house anyway, wanting to make a valiant effort of keeping to Delly's suggested schedule of a late afternoon nap and dinner before six.

So I'm in what feels like a knock down drag out fight with a three year old over trying to get him to use his big boy potty before taking that nap when Peeta breezes through the door—either fixing or ruining everything, depending on how I look at it.

Because Matty's so excited to see his Uncle Peeta that he forgets he was screaming multiple, loud and bratty "NOs" at me, and that's the good part. Except there's no way Matty's taking his nap now, not with his favorite Uncle riling him up by scooping him in his arms, and tossing him around like a bag of flour, making Matty squeal with delight before setting him down. And then _of course_ giving him a whole sugar cookie.

And that part's bad.

"Peeta," I hiss, wanting to be slightly annoyed, but finding it impossible when I see him look at me, still grinning, in his plain shirt that's damp with sweat from a long hot day at the bakery and a smudge of flour he somehow managed to get above his right temple, probably from wiping his brow as he worked. But instead of scowling, I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

His blue eyes twinkle back at me, fully aware he's breaking the rules.

"What?" he shrugs, turning back to watch Matty bite into the beautifully frosted cookie, suddenly happier than a clam.

"He'll just fall asleep early tonight. It's probably better this way anyway."

I look at him with skeptical eyes and hands on my hips.

"And what Delly doesn't know can't hurt her," he finishes, still grinning.

I roll my eyes but let him slip a broad arm around my shoulder, pulling me in and squeezing me gently and kissing the top of my head.

"How's it going so far?" he asks into my ear quietly.

"Well, he's still alive," I say, knowing Haymitch had half a point earlier today, and only half joking.

But Peeta laughs anyway.

"Sounds good enough to me."

And even though we're laughing, the look in his eye doesn't escape me. Because bad jokes aside, Peeta and I will always have a hard time taking the topic of _staying alive_ lightly.

And in that one look, we have the conversation we've had too many times all over again. It's become so routine throughout the years that Peeta really is able to say it all with just his eyes.

His promises that it will be good again. That it's almost good again. That it's been over ten years now, Katniss, and it's okay to be happy. That they'd want us to be happy. _Especially her._

I want to believe him. I really do. Even on days like today, where I'm lost and inept and completely unequipped to spend the day with a three year old.

And I love him so much, sometimes it's impossible not to think that things really are good again.

But then I have a bad day or he has a flash back—even a fleeting, momentary one—and the doubt creeps back in and I'm reminded why they're not.

But of course, I keep those thoughts to myself.

And when I kiss him softly instead, Peeta smiles against my mouth.

"Mmm, I love you, you know," he murmurs, and just like every time he says it, it still makes me blush.

"Let me just change and freshen up and then we'll divide and conquer, okay? I'll do dinner and you'll do Matty-watching."

He lets my eyes widen with terror before breaking his straight face.

"I'm just kidding," he laughs. "I stopped at the butcher's and picked up a few cold cuts. We'll have sandwiches and then we can both make sure we don't kill this kid."

I laugh, relieved, letting air fill my lungs back up as he sneaks off toward the stairs to our bedroom, but speaking loud enough to make sure he can still hear me once I have the breath to speak again.

"Okay, but hurry back, because it's just about time for Matty to use his big boy potty!"

The blue eyed little monster who now has sugar crumbs all over his face looks up at me with what I can only describe as disdain.

"NO."

And I sigh.

* * *

Matty's been sound asleep for an hour and Peeta's reading in bed when I'm finally ready to turn in with him after a cup of chamomile tea down in the kitchen alone with my thoughts. And as I wash my face with cold water and the scented soap my mother sends without prompting from District 4, I can't help but study myself in the mirror that hangs above our sink.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm 28 years old. My home is District 12. My original home was destroyed in a fiery, horrifying, life-ruining war that killed off a quarter of Panem. That killed Finnick. And Peeta's family. And Prim.

And I swore I'd never do this. I swore it up and down. No kids. Ever. Under no circumstances would I bring another human life into this terrible world. It's been an unbroken promise to myself since I was an almost dead, starving eleven year old.

I've been resolute, too. Not that Peeta's ever actually asked. He's far too good and selfless for that. Even though slowly, as years have passed, I've watched him light up at the sight of children at the bakery counter, beaming like a fool when he hands them pieces of cookie samples he keeps for just such occasions. He can never turn a child away empty-handed—it's always a bite of a chocolate chip cookie or a slice of cinnamon raisin bread. I know why he does it. I love him more for it even, but it's always made my heart ache when I see him with them.

Because I thought I'd never be able to give him that.

But when I watched him tonight with Matty, and the little boy had belly-laughed at something Peeta had said that probably wasn't even funny, and Peeta had ruffled his hair when he'd climbed like a monkey into his lap, Peeta'd caught me staring for just a second before looking away pretending like he hadn't. And somehow I just knew.

I knew that maybe things were finally different enough. The world was different enough. _I_ was different enough.

Because while I'll always be known as Katniss Everdeen, the Mockingjay, my name is also Mellark.

And my new home is Peeta.

A home that exists in the house that sits next to Haymitch's and his stupid goose collection; in the new bakery rebuilt on the grounds of the old one, and the woods where my father taught me to hunt and I practiced the skills that kept me alive after his death and that I still frequent now; and in our bed and in Peeta's arms.

And Peeta's right, things can be good again. Even if they're not perfect, I think I'm ready to accept that things can be _good_.

He greets me with a quiet "hey" when I join him in bed, looking at me only briefly with a small smile before returning his attention to the book he rests on his lap, himself half propped up against the headboard and a few pillows.

As I slide in next to him, I take him slightly by surprise when I reach for the book, sliding it out of his hands and into mine, closing it with a soft thud before placing it on my nightstand.

I look back to a pair of blue eyes, and a raised eyebrow, suddenly curious with what could be so important to interrupt the book I know he's been enjoying every night for the past week.

"You're in bed early," he tells me, adjusting himself slightly as I lean into him, resting my head on his bare chest, and he fusses with the covers so they lay just so, then drapes his arm around my shoulders, cradling me next to him.

"Matty must have tired you out today," he chuckles, and I feel his laugh against my temple before he kisses it sympathetically.

"I am tired," I agree, breathing in his clean scent, Peeta having snuck a shower after Matty went to bed. "But it's a good tired," I sigh, listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart, my ear to his chest.

He's smoothing my hair tenderly now, a beat of silence between us just enough to give me the courage to speak.

"Peeta," I start, and I can hear the shake of my own voice. I pull away to look at him, taking in the strong lines of his face, squared off in age but still boyish enough to remind me of the scared, determined, and charming sixteen year old boy I met all those years ago.

I can see in his eyes he knows something's up, and he looks perplexed.

But that's okay, because obviously, I'm scared too.

"You want kids, don't you?"

And even if he's on guard, it wasn't enough to expect that question. Not from me, at least.

"Because I think we should have a kid."

The words fall out of my mouth easier, simpler than I thought they would.

And they hang in the air between us for a few seconds before I chicken out waiting for him to respond and decide to kiss him instead.

He kisses me back, but he doesn't let me get very far before I receive pull back and his over-protective concern.

"Katniss," he says slowly, looking at me cautiously, caught off guard again when I don't let up and move my mouth to his throat.

"We're not…I'm not…" and he hums softly, losing his train of thought when I nip the tender skin of his neck.

"Katniss, please," he pleads, pulling me off him gently, looking at me seriously. Not letting me let this conversation get away from him.

"I'm still dangerous. And I wouldn't be able to live with the guilt if…"

I shake my head furiously at him, throwing myself back on top of him, pressing my lips against his in an attempt to kiss his stupid and_ wrong_ worries away.

"Don't say that," I warn him harshly. "Don't ever say that. You haven't had an episode in years, Peeta. And you've never hurt me once, have you?"

When he stares at me blankly, taken slightly aback by the urgency with which I speak, I continue to look at him in a way that lets him know I expect him to answer.

"I haven't," he confirms under his breath.

He stares at me, genuinely bewildered, and a little bit sad, but I know those eyes too well not to see it. And there's just a little bit of hope in them too.

"I'm not kidding," I say softly. "It's okay for you to tell me you want them."

"Katniss," he sighs, sitting up straight now. Letting his head loll against the headboard, still looking at me.

"Where is all of this coming from? One day with a three year old?"

I shake my head, understanding his confusion, but needing to make it go away.

"No. It's twelve years with you. Of loving you. Of fighting for you. And learning everything about you along the way. And knowing that it will make you happy."

I take a deep breath, neither of us daring to move—not a muscle, not our gaze.

"And I think it will make me happy too."

I can't stop the water that builds in my eyes.

"I want to be happy, okay? And I think it would mean something good."

Before I can register the hot tear spilling down my cheek, Peeta's brushing it away with his thumb, and he's kissing me.

"I will always, always, be happy with you, Katniss," he eventually murmurs in response against my lips, his breath warm, his words sincere. "No matter what we decide."

And we kiss again, and it's reassuring and comforting. We slide down the bed as Peeta rolls over on top of me, falling into an easy rhythm that's come with plenty of practice. He braces himself with an elbow near my head, pressing himself against me with just the right amount of pressure, and I gasp and reach for him at the same time.

"But I don't want to do anything rash. And I want to have a real conversation about it," he tells me, his voice sounding low and husky and…content.

Until his eyes flash something darker a half second later and his hand pushes the flimsy fabric of my night gown up toward my abdomen, and he's no longer content. In fact, he looks anything but satisfied.

"And right now, I just want to have you the same way I've always had you."

He whispers the last part against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine, his eyes dancing while he puts a finger to his lips, a warning to be quiet.

My eyes go wide, remembering there's a small child sleeping just down the hall. Although nothing will keep me from Peeta tonight.

I nod in understanding, and he grins.

And he's just slid into me, filling me whole, his thrusts taking their time to find a stable, perfect pace, and I close my eyes, biting back his name and a sigh, when I realize I was wrong.

Because there absolutely is something that will keep me from Peeta tonight.

And it's the cries of a small child wailing for his mother.

I feel Peeta still, and my eyes flutter open to his stunned blue ones.

I imagine my face shares the same confusion and surprise.

"He's calling for Mommy. That means you, right?"

"No!" I hiss, hitting him lightly in the chest in protest and panic as Peeta sighs and pulls out, rolling over back to his side of the bed.

Then he chuckles, wiping his mouth and chin with his hand.

"Shit," he murmurs, still chuckling in disbelief, running a hand through his hair. And I laugh too, because _of course_ this is what happens when you have children.

"Okay," he says, looking at me. "We'll do this together."

I nod, agreeing. Team effort is definitely needed to appease the crying child who's awoken in a bedroom that's not his own and is about to be rudely disappointed to find out he's stuck with two strangers and not the parents he's so desperately seeking right now.

And Peeta gives me a look and a crooked grin as he shrugs on his pajama pants and I hurriedly pull my nightgown back down.

"I guess we should get used to this for when we have our own kids, right?"


End file.
